by Desmond Hall
She lowered her voice. “What if you… run away? There are ‘ways’ to get out of the country, you know.”
“But then I’d just be a criminal all over again.” Never mind that he had no idea how to get into America illegally. And—shit—what if she was thinking about asking her father to help? Shit!
“We could find a way.” Leah interlaced her fingers with his.
Frankie thought about her father. “Hey, I have to go to a meeting.” Leah gazed at him. She seemed to be waiting for him to say more. “I’ll look into some things. See what I can do about leaving.” He knew she wanted him to say more, but it was all he could offer her now.
Forty-One
frankie sat by the huge guinep tree behind his shack; he’d caught a bus from school immediately, so he was back early for the meeting. The views of the mountains were the kind that tourists would spend lots of money to see so they could post their photos on Instagram. Blanketed with tree ferns, they sloped like proud soldiers, poised side by side, brothers in arms, tidy shoulder-lengths apart from each other and lifetimes away from anything modern. A few doctorbirds called back and forth to each other. No clouds in sight. It all seemed so peaceful. Leah just didn’t get how complicated going to America could be. You couldn’t just show up in America.
A sudden breeze rattled the guinep leaves like castanets, shaking a few fruits to the ground. Frankie picked one up. Ma had made jam from these. Seemed she was always boiling something, making jam, bread… a home. He sighed. He sure would love to see Hoover Dam. It was only six hours from the University of Arizona—he’d looked it up.
“Frankie.” It was Big Pelton.
Frankie chucked the fruit toward the soldier mountains and sprang up. “Time for us to go to the meeting?”
“No, mon.”
Hell, he could have stayed with Leah and not left her sitting there. “Canceled?”
“Joe just wants you to come.”
Bradford. Shit.
* * *
He tried to find some sort of calm. He doubted Bradford would do anything here, but he might say something—might have already. Why wasn’t the rest of the posse invited? Why else was Frankie being singled out?
In the middle of camp, sitting at the table in deep conversation, were Buck-Buck and Ice Box, who flanked Joe, who sat next to… yep, Bradford. Aunt Jenny was pacing behind them, the setting sun behind her shining light on the mountains.
Frankie walked up to them, swallowing. At least they weren’t talking about him.
“It’s up to you,” Bradford was saying, bobbing his gigantic head, “but me telling you this, you want his stash house too.”
Frankie stepped closer, too uncomfortable to sit. They hadn’t even looked at him yet. Wha the hell gwan?
“We have plenty supply up here. You no see our vineyard?” Joe said, big-time pride in his voice.
“Look, me no mean no offense, but you have ganja.” Bradford held up three fingers. “Him have ganja, heroin, and cocaine.”
“Crack?” Aunt Jenny pinched at her chin, pacing, pacing.
“Crack? No, mon, cocaine if you want rich people’s money,” Bradford corrected with a greedy grin.
Aunt Jenny whistled. “Cocaine’s big money.”
Joe cracked his knuckles. “I, mon, deal in herb.”
“Yes, and here’s my main point. Right now possession of up to two ounces of ganja is no longer a criminal offense. We know that.”
Ice Box snorted cynically. “Bullshit law. Me smoke more than that in an hour.” Only Buck-Buck laughed.
“Maybe so, but now the government is considering further legalization,” Bradford said, flat.
Bumboclot. That couldn’t be good for Joe’s business. Still processing what Bradford had said, Frankie realized the sergeant could only have heard this from politicians. Man, dude was well connected.
“What’s that you say? Fully legalize it?” Joe scratched into his dreads.
“I hear things,” Bradford boasted, a big man. “And though probably not a full legalization—more medical marijuana and some other that bullshit—but any incremental steps will hurt your business… since you only deal in… herb.”
Frankie grunted and hoped no one heard. This was major shit. This was Joe’s livelihood. But it was Jenny who made the next move.
Standing in front of Bradford, she asked, “What about the election? If JLP wins, they want to do more legalization too?”
“Well, let’s hope fi both our sakes that PNP wins, but yes, I hear both parties are considering it.”
The way politics and the drug business mixed with the gang world led Frankie to thinking about Leah’s painting, the one of the dead child and the wall beside it, filled with political graffiti. Dang. She could really see things.
“If we get Taqwan’s drugs, you’ll want a bigger cut,” Jenny challenged.
“Hell, yeah. And if it was me, I would go take out his stash house the same time I go hit his mansion.” Bradford stood and hiked up his pants. “Make me know what you want to do.”
Frankie lowered his head, thinking, thinking. This was an all-out attack that Bradford was proposing. The church shoot-out would be nothing compared to what might go down.
“Okay. Suppose we want to hit the stash house”—Joe hopped up as well—“how far is it from his mansion?”
“Don’t know.”
“You joking?” Joe shot Ice Box and Buck-Buck a look.
Bradford looked ticked off. “He changes up his stash house regularly, moves from one place to the other. I do know how you can find it, though.”
How would Bradford do that? That had to be one well-kept secret. Then again, there was that surveillance equipment Frankie’d seen in Bradford’s police jeep a few weeks back.
“His shipments from South America come into the airport like clockwork,” the sergeant continued.
“Bolivia?” Joe asked.
“Not important. What is, is that Taqwan’s people use bulletproof cars to pick up the shipments. Follow that car and you find his stash house. What you need to know is which car.”
“Bulletproof car doesn’t make any sound when you hit it,” Joe said.
How the heck would Joe know that? Props, Frankie thought.
Bradford pointed a fat finger at Joe. “Make me know what you want to do.” Then he turned to leave.
Frankie, feigning an itch, scratched the back of his head, hiding his face with his arms. Bradford walked past. Thank God, he didn’t say anything. As soon as Bradford was out of range, Frankie stopped scratching.
Joe waved away everyone but Jenny, saying, “We need some time to chat.”
Buck-Buck and Ice Box left, muttering to each other as they went. Frankie turned on his heel, hoping…
But Joe called Frankie back. What now?
“You missed di meeting yesterday, and me punish you for it. It no matter that it got canceled, neither.” Joe drove his finger into Frankie’s chest. “Miss another one and di punishment will be double, you understand?”
Frankie nodded, and imagined both Buck-Buck and Ice Box pummeling him again while arguing over whose punch was more powerful.
“Hear me now: me kept di meeting small because me want more secrecy about this. So you’re not to talk to anyone about what was said.”
“Okay, Uncle.” Frankie’s shoulders slumped, relieved that this talk with Joe wasn’t about Leah.
“Another thing… me want you think about what we discussed and come up with some ideas.”
Frankie blinked hard. Did he hear right?
“You have a problem with that?”
“No, Uncle.”
“Good. You have brains, and it’s high time you start using them fi di posse.”
Aunt Jenny was nodding in the background. It almost looked like she was encouraging Frankie. Had she put Joe up to this?
“Okay, Uncle.” Was Joe crazy? Frankie didn’t know anything about planning a mission. And what they were thinking about sounded more like a death mi
ssion.
* * *
The posse argued over everything during dinner: Taqwan, the upcoming election, how much Scotch bonnet pepper to add to rice and peas, whatever. Bradford’s appearance had a ripple effect; Frankie could practically see the tension thrumming through the air, the frayed nerves.
When Ice Box told Frankie to clear the dishes, he hopped right up, the obedient soldier, doing the necessary. He scraped away the remains of callaloo, rice, yellow yam, and boiled banana into a plastic bag, then stacked the plates, feeling a sense of déjà vu; this was something he’d have done at home, but with a lot fewer leftovers—Samson believed you had to eat every morsel on your plate.
Gripping the bag in one hand, he hoisted the plates in the other, using his chin to balance the top of the pile. As he teetered his way to the far end of the camp, he could hear Buck-Buck, Blow Up, and Ice Box chuckling at his domestic circus act.
Big Pelton and Marshal were already kneeling at the well, washing the pots, hands covered with soapsuds, their guns on the ground beside them.
Frankie smiled. “Don’t forget to moisturize afterward.”
“Fuck you,” Big Pelton groused. “Me didn’t join no posse to wash dishes.”
“What you complaining about? You know how hard it is to scrub this bumboclot pot?” Marshal countered. “Yellow yam no easy to get off.”
The plates were getting really heavy. “Gimme some room. I can’t hold these all day, you know.”
Big Pelton smirked. “Don’t drop them. Buck-Buck and Ice Box might come looking for you again.” He and Marshal high-fived, suds splattering. But they scooched over a few inches, letting Frankie in.
“Where did you go, anyway?” Big Pelton asked as Frankie began scrubbing. “When you left camp? You know you woulda got a bigger beating if it didn’t get rescheduled.”
Rescheduled or not, he had gotten a pretty proper beating.
“Must be a girl,” Marshal chimed in, grinding away at the pot.
“Yeah,” Big Pelton hooted. “She have a friend?”
“Not for you.” Double-dating with Big Pelton—whaaa? Plus, no way was he mentioning Leah, no way, no how.
“Yeah. Me know it was a girl.” Big Pelton flicked suds at Frankie. “Me know her?”
Frankie shook the last plate dry, picked up the bag, and headed toward the compost. “Later.”
“She so ugly you don’t want to tell me?” Big Pelton yelled after him.
“No, Pelton, you’re so ugly I don’t want to scare her.”
Big Pelton trotted after him. “Frankie, me hear Winston’s funeral is Saturday.”
“Yeah, okay,” Frankie said, and made a big deal of emptying the bag. He’d already decided not to go to Winston’s funeral. There was no sense in it. Being there wouldn’t bring him back. He’d be there in a minute if it would—he’d camp out days before, waiting for the minister. Sure, there was something to representing for your friend, but he couldn’t handle another funeral; he just couldn’t. He’d check in with Winston’s ma, give her a little money to help them get by. She’d understand.
On the way back to his shack, the strong scent of ganja met him. Buck-Buck, Ice Box, and Blow Up were lounging on Ice Box’s porch.
“Frankie, you figure out which one of us hit harder?” Buck-Buck shouted, sounding like he was on his third spliff.
“My grandmother hit harder than both of you,” Frankie joked.
“Bring her and we have a contest,” Buck-Buck said. “We see which one of us knock you out first.” Blow Up and Ice Box cracked up.
An hour later, the camp was quiet. There were no meetings to be missed. It had been an early dinner. Kingston was only an hour’s ride. Leah was only an hour’s ride away. He walked over to his bike, reached down to check the front tire, and caught a whiff of himself. Whoo! Being a busboy had left a stench. Shower time.
Bar of soap and old striped towel in hand, he headed up the path to the outdoor showers, hoping the water drums had been refilled. Buck-Buck would probably ask him to do that next. He’d been fetching water all his life, so it would be more of the same—and completely different.
Forty-Two
frankie sped past New Kingston’s fancy hotels, high-rises, and manicured lawns, the air steamy, but he was fresh and clean, and rode so fast the wet didn’t have time to settle. He passed lit-up mansions dug into the mountainside on the left and a billboard promoting an exhibit at the National Gallery on the right. He’d have to tell Leah about it—maybe they could go.
He wove his way to Vineyard Town and finally got to Leah’s house. He deliberately didn’t think about what he’d do if Bradford were there. Leave, probably. But even trying to see Leah was better than not seeing her at all.
* * *
Yeah! The carport was empty; Bradford must have been out shaking someone down, stirring shit up. Frankie had an idea where Leah’s room was from the last visit. He eased the gate open. Yes, her room was alight, window open, AC spilling out. He set his bike against the East Indian mango tree. The mangoes looked so ripe he couldn’t resist picking one, pulling the skin off, and sinking his teeth into it. Sweet juice ran down his chin.
He glanced around, then worked his way up the tree. It was just a long stretch over to the carport. Its roof felt sturdy, so he crept across it to Leah’s windowsill and peeked inside. There she was at her desk, reading.
An offensive smell was rising. He hoped it wasn’t him. Oof. His underarms were foul from the bike ride. Well, at least he had mango-sweet breath. He whipped off his shirt and was down to his white tank before he remembered the gun at his waist. It seemed such a part of him now, but it would freak Leah out, so he wrapped it up in his shirt, swung back down the tree, and hid it under some leaves by the garbage can.
That was when he spotted them, next to the can: paintings. He nearly fell backward in dismay. Leah’s work, all of it, was a row of discarded canvases: the charcoal drawing of the shanty house with JLP and PNP slogans written all over, the painting of a steamroller paving a road with the bodies of teenage boys… There was a hole punched through where the steamroller should have been. All her work from the review—thrown out like food wrappers. Frankie scrambled back up the tree, reached through the grille, and tapped Leah’s windowpane.
She looked over as if she wasn’t even surprised to see him, but simply debating whether to acknowledge his existence. At last she came over hesitantly. “What are you doing here? How was your ‘meeting’?”
“I’m sorry I had to take off like that, but I couldn’t be late.”
“Posse business?”
He nearly looked away but knew that was the wrong move, so he looked her in the eye. “Yeah, just a meeting. My uncle has a thing about people being late.”
She glanced back to her bedroom door. “Go around the back.”
“Can’t I come in?”
“My grandmother’s room is next to mine.”
He smiled wryly. “She’s not a fan, huh?”
She looked down at the sill and back to him. “Nope.”
“Well, can she hear through walls?”
“Among her other superpowers.” She pointed. “There’s a utility room. The key is under the mat.”
At the utility room, an add-on made of unpainted cinder blocks, he found the key and ducked inside. The strong smell of paint was everywhere. Leah. An easel in the corner next to two buckets filled with paintbrushes held a half-finished painting depicting an almost cartoonish image of an ocean, and beneath it, dozens of black-and-white images of shirtless African slaves in chains. He touched the top, the blank area above the ocean—what was she going to put there? He spotted several other canvases leaning against the wall and knelt to fan through them. Again, that sense of pride shivered through him. She was so good! Footsteps. Eager to show her how what was important to her was important to him, he couldn’t help but smile.
But no one came in. And he had an eerie feeling it was Bradford at the door. But it was Leah’s grandmother, in her nig
htgown and puffy slippers, backlit in the doorway, holding a machete.
“I thought it was you. So, you’re in a posse, Scholarship Boy?” Her voice was a sneer. “That’s right, my son told me everything.”
Frankie blinked hard. Was Bradford on the way too?
Penelope’s nostrils flared. “Now know this. You’re not good enough for Leah, and you’ll never be good enough for her. Even if you live a hundred lives. You know that, don’t you, black boy?”
His eye twitched.
She gave the machete a slice through the air. “Don’t think I’m afraid to use this. Now get the hell out of here.” She spat on the ground for emphasis, a move his mother would never have done. She—his black mother—would have considered it low-class. Disgusting.
And black boy? To hear it from this woman, this woman whose son was… Bradford? Did she know who he was? Frankie made for the door. The look of triumph on Penelope’s face made him want to spit.
Leah was running toward them. “Grandma, what are you doing?”
“He’s not for you, Leah,” Penelope said dismissively.
Leah grabbed her grandmother’s wrist. “That’s not your choice.”
Penelope’s eyes turned steely, but Leah pulled harder.
“Grandma, let go.”
Frankie braced himself, ready if the old woman turned on Leah.
But after another tense few seconds, Penelope lowered her arm, and the machete dropped to the ground.
Leah gave a head tilt, for Frankie to leave. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Frankie paused by the mango tree to get his gun and saw an ant crawling on the half-eaten mango. He felt Penelope’s eyes on him. Black boy, he fumed. Light-skinned Jamaicans like her had so many damn issues with people who looked like him. A young Taqwan had probably heard crap like this too. Frankie cursed Penelope out beneath his breath. No matter what she thought, he was the son of good people. Decent people. Honorable people. Like Leah said, it was just that his corner was dark. He slowly, carefully unwrapped the gun and tucked it into his waistband. Then, at the last minute, he grabbed Leah’s discarded steamroller painting, tucked it under his arm, and hopped on his bike. He hoped Leah noticed. Oh, how he hoped.